The trees are walking by me
and I stare quietly.
The wind stops to fluff my jacket a bit
as I sit stoically.

I may be dying
but I am not tortured:
oil is not spilling into my lungs
bombs are not exploding my home

Bullets are not stopping by
to mangle my mother brother father sister:
yes, my heart may be breaking
but this is not the same as waking death.

So I should notice the pink flowers
the wind tugging at my hair
the young man with his cane.
I should remember:

The tulips have arrived
and I want to see them again.